patch of mulch in my backyard, I knew
it had to have been planted by my fine
neighbors next door. They look out for me
as if I were incapable of doing anything
by myself in the vast domain of vegetation.
I agree.
Early next morning, I shaved, showered,
drank my juice, ate my banana, went out,
stood by the curb, stopped the first walker
I saw, asked her to view,
then identify my planting. She called it
a crepe myrtle.
I stood alone in the chill of the morning,
thinking, How come? Having always assumed
a crepe myrtle was a delicacy served only
to the elite for breakfast. Some time ago
I watered the plastic flowers under my mailbox
for several months, until the guy next door said
to stop.
Ronald Moran has published poems in a number of journals, including Asheville Poetry Review, Evening Street Review, North American Review, Northwest Review, Tar River Poetry, and Yankee. His last six books of poetry were published by Clemson University Press. He lives in Simpsonville, SC.
I stood alone in the chill of the morning,
thinking, How come? Having always assumed
a crepe myrtle was a delicacy served only
to the elite for breakfast. Some time ago
I watered the plastic flowers under my mailbox
for several months, until the guy next door said
to stop.
Ronald Moran has published poems in a number of journals, including Asheville Poetry Review, Evening Street Review, North American Review, Northwest Review, Tar River Poetry, and Yankee. His last six books of poetry were published by Clemson University Press. He lives in Simpsonville, SC.
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